


Universal Constant

by Cirth



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Family, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Permanent Injury, Traumatic Brain Injury, doesn't happen here, so uhh remember when the batfam left dick to live on the streets after he'd been shot in the head
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:33:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27562336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cirth/pseuds/Cirth
Summary: After Dick is shot, Bruce and the others don't leave him in Blüdhaven. Instead, they bring him home.It's not what anyone expects.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Alfred Pennyworth, Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne
Comments: 89
Kudos: 468
Collections: Dick Grayson Fic Exchange 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mayfriend](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayfriend/gifts).



> Thanks to Empires for the wonderful beta. 
> 
> I hope you like it, mayfriend!
> 
> Prompt: Dick loses his memory, but instead of going to Bludhaven and becoming Ric, he stays with the Wayne’s (who he doesn’t know are bats) and tries to rebuild his life. This can be slashy or gen, but I’d just like to see dick figuring out the family dynamics without all the pieces, see how his relationships change, whether he surprises anyone with his actions/conclusions, and of course the hilarity/angst of the bats trying to hide their night time activities from Dick. 
> 
> If you do go slashy, I’d quite like a ‘bad guy’ like Slade to come across Dick without his memories (obvs without the rest of the family present) and go about befriending and wooing him, Dick not knowing they knew each other before. whether his memory comes back or not is up to the filler.

**Universal Constant**

"We were supposed to watch a movie."

Dick looks up from the list he is making at his desk. He is not allowed to go out yet, so he has to write down everything he wants from the grocery store.

"I've been waiting for an hour."

Dick lowers his pen. He has struck out a couple of items he repeated. The sticky note is pink. A bit hard on the eyes.

Damian is hovering at the threshold of his bedroom, as if he wants to come in but an invisible barrier is preventing him from doing so. "You remember who I am, right?" he says with a suspicious frown.

That is not the way Dick would put it. After he'd been shifted out of the hospital he was formally re-introduced to his family, one by one, at a dining table. Dick had thought the room had a grave opulence, the sort that said _Don't touch anything_. He felt anything but comfortable and sat, nodding with his hands on his lap, as he was fed information, about them, about him. Except for Damian (glaring) and Alfred (neutral), their faces were painted with smiles.

He had already met all of them, in fits and starts, while he was at the hospital, but somehow, he never saw them at once. There was always something to prevent it: He was disoriented. They were busy. The pain was swallowing everything.

Dick expects the pen to snap with how hard he is clutching it. "You're Damian Wayne." People keep telling him he's forgotten something or the other – a game of Uno, breakfast, the month. Once, Bruce came into Dick's room and Dick asked where he'd been all day, only for Bruce to say he'd been with him for the past half an hour and had only left to get some water. Dick wanted to throw up.

Damian says, "It was your idea."

"I'm sorry. Are you still up for it?" The self-help book that Bruce had got him lies at the corner of his desk, with a pencil tucked in the gutter as a bookmark – _Coping With Traumatic Brain Injury_. He wants to rip out the pages.

"Do you even remember where the TV room is?"

Dick pinches the bridge of his nose. He does not want a repeat instance of a week ago, when he'd smashed a vase because he couldn't find the striped socks he'd wanted to wear. It was only misfortune that the vase happened to be dated to 19th-century Italy, but that didn't make him feel any better.

All his feelings are mottled greenbluepurple and everything is too loud and the clothes on him are too tight and the grocery list is still sitting there. _Mood swings_ , the book mentioned. _Emotional states might also be more extreme than normal_ . _Wandering is relatively common._ There were other words, in the shape of fear and with fuzzy edges, that he doesn't want to think about.

"Master Damian," says a new voice – Alfred. He walks up to Damian with his hands behind his back. "I believe it is unbecoming to be impatient with Master Richard. Do you not?"

Damian's face goes bright red and he looks away, scowling.

Alfred turns an unsmiling but not unkind face to Dick. "I require some assistance in the kitchen. Will you help?"

"No," says Damian, and scuttles away.

Dick sighs.

"May I sit by you?" says Alfred.

Dick doesn't care either way. "Sure."

Alfred takes a seat on the bed, a few feet away from Dick. It gives Dick room to think, room to breathe, hold, release. Repeat. A thank you sits at the edge of his tongue.

"He doesn't know how to deal with this," Alfred says. "A child, that too of his background." He must see Dick's confusion, because he adds, "His maternal grandfather was...not the best influence."

"Ah." Dick's life is full of gaping holes, and he's not sure he wants to patch up some parts that were blown out. He looks at his list again. Scratchy. Almost illegible. When Bruce saw his handwriting for the second first time, he had said, in an attempt at levity, _Well, your handwriting was never that good_ , in a tone that suggested it is much worse now.

Alfred stands up. "Why don't you help me with the starters for dinner?"

Dick gets up and follows him. It's not like he has work to do; his routine consists mainly of physiotherapy, lists, and figuring out ways to occupy his time.

There's a jar of sweets on the kitchen island and Alfred takes off the lid and offers it to him. "Pear drop?"

Dick shrugs and pops one in his mouth. Then he takes another. "Don't tell me," he says, "I used to like pear drops and that's why you offered."

"Is that a problem?" says Alfred, sounding genuinely concerned.

Dick isn't sure if he's appreciative or annoyed. "No," he answers, after a moment. "I guess not."

He stirs butternut squash soup on the stove while Alfred chops vegetables with brisk, efficient strokes. The kettle whistles. Dick wonders how many times he had done this before. How tall he was when he first did it. "How do you keep this place so clean?" says Dick, to fill the silence. Alfred seems at ease, but Dick is starting to shuffle with awkwardness. "I could eat off the floor."

Alfred does not smile, but it seems a near thing. "While keeping the kitchen spotless is a matter of pride for me, please do not."

Dick wants to continue the conversation, wants more than a fractured exchange. He tries to come up with a topic that isn’t boring, but spends so much time thinking that eventually he decides he’d come across as abrupt if he spoke. He continues stirring the soup. 

They wheel the food to the dining room. Dick is about to place the bowl of salad on the table when his hand spasms. "Shit, _fuck_ ," he hisses, as the whole thing spills everywhere, cherry tomatoes rolling under the chairs and pieces of lettuce flopping onto the Persian carpet. Balsamic vinegar drips down his fingers. He stares at the mess, spiralling through anger and frustration and an irrational, consuming grief.

Alfred remains unruffled, which Dick doesn't know how to feel about, and says, "Never mind, there is no shortage of salad in this house."

They begin to clean up the mess. As he reaches for a tomato Dick thinks of the bright pink of the sticky note and how it was washed away by the green of Damian's eyes.

***

After dinner, Dick squints at himself in the mirror with his clothes off. His body has been bothering him.

He had lost weight during that three-week coma, but he can still see that he used to have the physique of an Olympic martial artist. Lots of scars, deep jagged discoloured things. They do not look like the sort gotten from any kind of martial art. Tim had said, crisply, that Dick had been kidnapped when he was twelve and tortured for every minute that Bruce did not send money. That he'd been in a couple of bad accidents as a teenager. A shootout when he was twenty.

An absurd surplus of bad luck, thinks Dick.

He turns on the hot water and gets in the shower carefully; he tends to stumble a lot. The knowledge does not shatter him as it might have his old acrobatic self. His memories at best are a roof with holes. At worst, a vacuum.

He finishes his shower and puts on sweatpants and an old T-shirt, clothes that are soft, nice, safe. There's a list stuck to his bathroom door, meant to be checked in the morning before he greets everyone at breakfast. Bruce and Alfred had typed and printed it for him. It reads:

_Checklist:_

_\- Drink water_

_\- Brush your teeth_

_\- Shower_

_\- Wear your underclothes_

_\- Wear your pants_

Kind of them. Must have been a nice family – must be one.

He sits on the window sill, drawing his knees to his chest.

The manor is all he has known for days. In effect, it is all he has ever known – that, and the hospital. His life has been divided into two colours: the sterile white of sheets, and rich woods the shade of the dark chocolate in the top shelf of the fridge. Appeals to go to the city, to any place outside the gates, have been met with vague statements about Dick's safety: It's a big place, you could get lost. Someone might mug you. Your bandages just came off, you should rest for a few more days.

Dick rolls his shoulder. Flexes his ankle. His body wants air. Pumping blood. Wind sharp on his cheeks. The gardens are not enough even though they fade into acres of woodland. When he opens the window and leans out he is met with the smog-smudged acid-neon of the cityscape, beyond the dark line of trees in the manor grounds.

There is a flicker of something in his head. Bronze-edged goggles. Dark clothing. Glitter of a knife. A whisper: _Richard_. The view from his bed at the hospital.

(There had been something at the window. Man-shaped, crouching. He told the nurse and she said Don't worry, people with TBIs see things sometimes, I'll get the doctor.)

He gets up, stretches, walks a couple of circles in his room. Sits down on his bed. Opens his bedside drawer and sifts through the contents, which his family had brought over from his Blüdhaven apartment. Faux-leather wallet, frayed at the edges, with thirty-two wrinkled dollar notes and ten cents. Batman-themed flashlight (?). Tiny bear figurine with a chipped ear and a tag that reads "From LiAn C:".

Dick feels like he is occupying the room of a man so recently deceased that people are not done mourning him. He feels like he is occupying the dead man's body.

Growing increasingly listless, he leaves his room and begins to wander around. He can't get used to the manor. The size. All those old paintings in moody colours. Heavy ornate carpets. In the foyer on a wall there is a framed 5,000-piece puzzle of two men boating. Dick had asked Bruce about it, and Bruce said that he and Dick had finished it together, when Dick was eleven. The glass casing is pristine, almost reflective. A religious cleaning would be required to maintain it. He puts his fingers on it like that will help him remember.

It doesn't. Obviously.

He continues on his stroll, going back up the stairs, and suddenly he is in what appears to be a study, with a grandfather clock that must be at least half a century old. The curtains to the windows are closed. Dick doesn't know of any other rooms with closed curtains. They give the area the feel of a backstage. A place to prepare something.

The door opens and Dick jumps.

 ~~A boy in his late teens~~ Tim walks in, tailed by ~~a girl in her early twenties~~ Cass. Tim takes one look at Dick and makes an odd strangled sound. He looks as though he's been caught at something, like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar. Cass smiles at him.

"Uh," says Tim, "we were just – "

"Going crimefighting," Cass finishes with zeal, smacking her fist into her palm.

" _Cass_ ," says Tim, aghast, as though she's telling the truth.

Cass beams even wider. "It's fine. I will protect him."

"Sure," says Dick, uncertainly. Is this their sense of humour? Had he been used to this?

" _Anyway_ ," says Tim, "weren't you supposed to stay in your room? We've told you not to walk around at night."

Dick stares at him blankly. He does not remember being told that.

"We gotta figure out a way to stop you from doing this before you get hurt," Tim continues, rubbing the back of his neck.

Cass puts a hand on Tim's shoulder and her smile softens. "Can I take you back to your room?" she says. Then she looks pleased with herself. "I'm a real gentleman."

"Gentlewoman," mutters Tim.

"It's okay," says Dick, feeling self-conscious and out of place, "you guys carry on." He pictures Cass and Tim punching men in domino masks carrying sacks of money on their shoulders, like in cartoons. They'd sit on a wall eating hot dogs piled with onions afterwards, swinging their legs and chatting till the sun rose. The bruises on their faces would stretch as they smiled. Their hair would be cold from the autumn air and stiff with sweat.

He blinks away the image.

Tim and Cass are going to play video games or something, and they don't want Dick to hear their inside jokes. This must be it.

It should not sting as much as it does.

He thinks of the book again and takes a moment to resent it.

"Um, anyway," says Tim. He shuffles his feet. Cass hits him on the shoulder and he hisses, " _What?_ "

Dick clears his throat and turns to leave.

"Sleep well, Dick!" Tim calls after him.

When Dick gets back to his room he picks up the book and settles against his pillow. Periodically he underlines parts that seem important, and gnaws at the back of the pencil the rest of the time. He carries on till his eyes get scratchy.

That night he dreams of flying, but instead of being in the circus tent he's sailing above flashing city lights and there's someone calling him an idiot and telling him, What would you do without me, huh. When he turns his head there's no one there and his reflection on the skyscraper glass is a blur of greyblack.

He wakes up and thinks, _That didn't seem like a circus outfit._

***

Bruce looks gobsmacked.

He hasn't lowered the newspaper in his hands. Dick can read the headline _Mysterious stabbing of Gotham politician sparks unrest_ on the side that's facing him _._ "Uh," says Bruce. Even though he is sitting in bed at seven in the morning with the sheets flopped all over, his back is straight. He's bare to the waist, and Dick realises, for the first time, that he's built like he’s _strong_. Bruce’s body seems all about function and Dick wouldn’t be surprised if he could pick him up and chuck him out the window with one hand. 

"What's your workout routine?" Dick asks, tilting his head. "Rich guys don't need to be this fit."

Bruce takes off his reading glasses, slowly. "I play tennis? Lift some weights?"

"Damn, what kind of tennis are you playing? You look like you wrestle bears for a hobby."

Bruce looks at the tray in Dick's hands.

"Do you drink coffee?" says Dick, suddenly remembering why he came here. In hindsight he should have asked before he got it. The tray is a bit heavy. He'd picked the nicest one he could find in the kitchen, a glossy black thing with a gold lily pattern. His arms are getting tired.

"Yes?"

Dick puts the tray on the bed, next to Bruce's lap, and stands back, waiting.

Bruce stares at the tray and then puts down the paper. He tentatively picks up the coffee, takes a sip, and blinks quickly, twice.

"Do you like it?"

Bruce clears his throat and smiles. "It's wonderful, Dick. Thank you."

That is good. That is progress. "Take time to connect with others" is one of the strategies in the book. Dick nods and sits on the edge of the bed. He had taken a lot of steps back in the past three months and he figures even one step forward is relevant. It gives him a bit of hope. Bruce seems to care about him a lot, so Dick thinks it's important that he builds – rebuilds – their relationship.

(He'd been wandering in the garden a couple of days ago when he heard voices beyond some bushes. When he peered over he found Bruce and Alfred talking quietly by Martha and Thomas Wayne's graves.

Dick squatted by the brambles, embarrassed and not wanting to be seen. 

"I could feel his brain leaking over my fingers," Bruce was saying lowly. He made a sound like he was shuddering, or crying, except – Bruce is a stoic man. He does not cry. "God, Alfred, I could – ")

"Sleep well?" Dick asks.

Bruce begins to choke on his coffee, and Dick reaches over to thump him on the back. "Easy, easy," rasps Bruce, flapping a hand at Dick. "You're stronger than you think you are, sport."

Dick gives a wide smile. He can do this. He can bring Bruce coffee and help Alfred in the kitchen and watch movies on time with Damian.

He sits there till Bruce drains the last of his beverage. As Dick picks up the tray he plants a loud wet kiss on Bruce's temple because it only seems appropriate, and also because he's feeling good. Bruce goes about looking gobsmacked again; he might have dropped the cup if it had still been in his hands.

He returns downstairs to the kitchen, humming. Alfred is washing the dishes. He stops and turns to Dick, pointing to the nondescript plastic packet of sugar Dick had left on the counter; Dick hadn't been able to locate the jar. "How much did you put?"

Dick wonders if Bruce is fussy about how sweet his coffee is. "Two teaspoons, why?" he says, putting the tray down on the island.

"It's salt."

Dick wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole. "Why didn't he say anything?" he wails.

Alfred coughs delicately, lips twitching.

Dick doesn't know what to do with all his embarrassment. Maybe he should make a list. His feelings are rapidly turning to anger – he should have realised it was salt. He should have known. He is tired of not knowing. He stalks off towards the game room, hoping to take a breather.

It turns out he's not the only one who thought he could park his ass there. Cass is curled up in a chair by the window, watching something on a tablet with earphones in. Her hair is tucked into her scarf. Damian is sitting cross-legged on the sofa, sketching, while Titus snores softly at his bare feet. He looks up at Dick, and his eyes shutter before he returns his attention to his sketchbook. There's a bird-like shape on the page, its wings spread in a motion that seems proud and unafraid.

"What's that?" says Dick, leaning down to peer at it.

Damian freezes. It's the same guilty kind of freezing that Tim does sometimes. "A symbol."

"Yeah, but of what?" says Dick, sitting next to him. There's a stack of lifestyle magazines on the coffee table and he pushes them aside to rest a foot on it.

"Nightwing," mutters Damian without looking at him, and going back to sketching.

"The superhero they talk about on TV?" Dick says with a laugh. The news anchor has mentioned him once or twice – a friendly if elusive legend that recently vanished from the streets of Blüdhaven. Not a trace. On the channel half the BPD said he was a criminal and should have been jailed. An elderly civilian wondered, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, if he'd been killed. Dick wouldn't be surprised, considering the line of work. "You a fan? That's cute."

"Shut up."

"Who's a fan of what?" says Tim, coming in while scratching his nose.

"Damian's a fan of Nightwing."

"No I'm not!"

"He is," says Cass with a grin. She's plucked out her earphones and Dick can now see she's got on bright yellow nail polish. "He thinks Nightwing is super cool."

"He get an autograph yet?" says Dick, returning the grin and ruffling Damian's hair. Damian makes an indignant noise, and for a moment Dick is afraid he's done something weird and insensitive again without realising it. But Damian does not bat Dick's hand away or snap at him, so he counts that as...acceptable? Welcome? He hopes it's welcome.

"Ah," says Tim with a jocular, dismissive wave of his hand. "He's not _that_ cool. Red Robin could take him."

Damian snorts so loudly he wakes up Titus, whose ears flick, just as Cass says, "Couldn't. Nightwing is outside his class."

"Well, jeez, don't let Red Robin hear you say that," says Tim, his face going through a series of interesting contortions.

Cass gives an uproarious laugh and Dick wonders, again, if he's missing out on some kind of joke.

"Ah," says Tim again, rubbing the back of his neck. "God, I miss that asshole." He sounds forlorn. Maybe he's a bigger fan than Damian and covers it up by teasing him. It's then that Dick pays attention to Tim's wording. "You talk like you knew him personally," says Dick.

Tim looks shifty. "Nah," he says, flipping open a magazine and staring at the contents. Damian is glaring at Tim with the intensity of a miniscule sun. "He just seemed like a good dude."

***

There is a slice of bread in his hand.

This is a problem.

Another slice on the cutting board suggests he was going to make a sandwich. But there is no jar of jam, tin of cheese, or pieces of lettuce to indicate the filling. There's not even a tray of butter. He looks at the window above the sink. The sky is the colour of a persimmon. It could be early morning, or evening. Did he come to the kitchen to make himself a snack? Or did someone else ask him to get them something?

His skin is burning. He lets go of the bread and drops to his knees. The floor is so cold it feels wet through his sweatpants. He covers his face in his hands. Takes a strained, ragged breath. His heart is going to beat out of his chest and spatter across the cabinets.

With a short, strangled cry, he gets up, takes a glass from a shelf, and hurls it to the floor. It explodes into a hundred pieces and the shards skid everywhere. He stands there for a moment, chest heaving. Inhale, exhale. Numb with static in his ears.

He furrows his brow.

Why had he done that? What purpose could that possibly have served?

His hands clutch his hair, yanking it from the roots. He is cudgeled with the image of his siblings poking at him, lifting his chin, moving his arms, and saying, _What's wrong? Why won't he work?_

Shaking, he crouches down and begins hastily picking up the glass. He has to finish cleaning up before anyone comes in and sees. There is a flash of red. Then more than a flash. Now there is blood on the floor. He's got blood and glass all over Alfred's immaculate kitchen floor. "Oh no," he whispers, "oh no, no, no." His chest hurts. He scrambles up, grabs a kitchen towel, wets it under the tap, gets back on his knees. There are spots in his vision, anemones floating in a shallow sea.

"Master Richard?"

Dick gasps and turns to the voice. Alfred is standing by the door, eyes wide and face agonised. Dick did that. Dick upset him.

"My dear boy," says Alfred, sounding odd and choked. "What have you done?"

Dick is paralysed with fear and guilt. He wants to say he's sorry but the words stick in his throat. He remains crouched on the floor, stock-still.

" _Oh_ ," says Alfred. He takes a broom from a narrow closet by the fridge and quickly sweeps the broken glass away from Dick. From a cabinet he retrieves a first aid kit and sits beside Dick. His knees pop. There's blood staining Alfred's trousers now. He takes Dick's wrist and Dick blinks. "Oh, dear boy," Alfred says again. He tugs gently to coax Dick up, and then makes him rinse his hands with soap in the sink.

Dick remains still as Alfred begins to pluck the shards embedded in his palm with a pair of tweezers. It hurts but Dick does not complain. It isn't right, that this kind elderly man has to take care of him.

Once the shards are gotten rid of, his hands are disinfected and bound. As soon as it's finished, Alfred gives a soft sigh and wipes his forehead. Dick bites his lip.

Suddenly Tim appears at the door. He looks at the glass, at Alfred, the blood, Dick, and says, “Oh my God, what the hell?”

“Tim? What happened?” That’s Bruce’s voice, floating from somewhere beyond Tim’s shoulder. There is a patter of small feet. Damian. It’s like Dick opened a dam by getting bread out for a sandwich and the entire house flooded in. 

Tim steps aside to let in Bruce, who looks like he just got smacked in the face with a baseball bat. “Dick,” he says.

“I’ve taken care of it now,” says Alfred, and Dick might be imagining it but he sounds a tad cold, a tad disapproving. The only thing that convinces Dick that it's not aimed at him is Alfred's hand on his shoulder.

That seems to snap Bruce out of his stupor. “Let’s get you up,” he says. He walks over and helps Dick into a chair at the island. “Are you all right?”

“He is now,” says Alfred.

Damian appears at Dick’s elbow, brow creased. “Grayson?” he demands. He sounds angry. Dick does not know why he is angry. “What foolishness have you committed this time?”

“Leave him alone, brat,” Tim hisses, yanking Damian away by the back of his T-shirt. 

“Don’t touch me!”

“Can you be anything but a pain for just _five seconds_?”

Bruce growls, “Enough,” and his voice sounds like it came from the centre of a mountain, and mercifully they stop because Dick's head felt like it was about to split open. He realises he's been breathing harshly, hands clenched as much as they can with the gauze.

A glass of water appears beneath his nose. The hand around it has nails with chipped yellow polish. "Drink," says Cass, bringing the glass to Dick's lips. Dick takes a couple of sips to appease her and then shakes his head. He is grateful, but he cannot drink more.

Tim and Damian have started arguing again. " – making him feel worse!" Tim is saying.

"Don't say that!" Damian roars. Dick's head throbs. "I'm _not_ making him feel worse! It's Father's fault he didn't protect him! I would have protected him better, I'd have died for him and you know it!"

"Damian," says Bruce sharply. There is devastation beneath the fury on his face.

Damian bursts into tears. It's awful. He stands with his hands covering his face and his shoulders hunched, howling. For once he really does seem like he's thirteen and not an old man in a child's body. The others stare at him helplessly, like they don't know what to do, except Cass, who looks sympathetic, if also unsurprised. Alfred is the first to react, fishing out a hanky from his pocket and wiping the snot and tears from Damian's face.

"Bruce, Tim," says Cass, "leave."

"What?"

"Leave."

They look like they are about to protest, indignant. Then Bruce deflates and puts a hand on Tim's shoulder. They pad out of the kitchen, Tim glancing over his shoulder.

Silence, save for muted sniffling from Damian.

"I'm sorry," says Cass. "We made it bad for you."

Dick keeps his eyes on the glass. His bones are turning to dust.

"It is 7.04 in the evening," Cass says, checking her digital wristwatch. "You fell asleep two hours ago."

Alfred folds his hanky and puts it back in his pocket. He puts a hand on Damian's shoulder as the boy tries to creep away. "If you are tired, I can bring your dinner to your room."

"I'm not an _invalid_ , I can do it myself!"

"I know. I just want to spoil my grandson."

Dick puts his face in his hands. It's too much. Everything is too much.

"All right," says Alfred quietly.

Dick finds his way back to his room. He's exhausted, and he doesn't think sleeping a hundred years could fix it.

Three faces beam out at him from the Flying Graysons poster above the bed. Its lacquered frame glints in the light. He flops on the mattress that used to belong to the other Dick Grayson. After a minute of tossing and turning, he gets up to yank the poster off its nails. It feels wrong to throw it away, so he tucks it away beside the wardrobe, where he can't see it.

Alfred brings his dinner half an hour later and puts it on the desk. If he notices the missing poster he does not mention it. He says, "Please, tell me if you need anything."

_I need to be able to remember if I'm making a sandwich or if Damian asked me to watch a movie with him. I need to be able to put on my clothes without fearing I'll lose my balance and break my neck. I need a family that I remember but I can't have that so I have to settle for people who say they know me and I have to take their word for it._

Dick curls up, screwing his eyes shut. He cries. He falls asleep. When he wakes up the food is still there, covered. The sunlight is blinding through the window; he'd left the curtains open.

He does not go down for breakfast. At midday he stuffs his face in the pantry with Greek yoghurt, trail mix, and an apple so he doesn't have to join the others for lunch.

Later that evening, Bruce comes and tells him, awkwardly, that the family needs to have a talk. It's the last thing Dick wants to do.

They sit at the dining table, where they had been reintroduced. Cass is not present; she's gone to a ballet recital, he is told. Dick puts his hands in his lap and tries to breathe properly. There is a speck of brown sauce – barbecue from lunch, probably – on the tablecloth. He wants to scratch it off.

Bruce clears his throat and says that they need further measures they can take to keep Dick safe. (More specifically, to keep him safe from himself, but no one says that.) He asks for suggestions at large and no one says anything for a good ten seconds. Dick feels like the walls are closing in on him.

Tim shifts. "We could put a sign up on his door that reminds him not to leave his room."

Alfred and Bruce look profoundly uncomfortable. Damian goes purple before snapping, "He's not a _dog_ , Drake!"

"Do you have any better ideas?" Tim shoots back. "It was just a _suggestion_ , Christ."

Dick stands up. His head is full of wasps. It is about to split open.

"Dick?" says Bruce.

"I'm tired."

"You've been in your room all day," says Tim, sounding indignant.

Dick grips the edge of the table. He will find specks of blood on his bandages later. "I said I'm _tired_." He's going to hit someone. He doesn't want to hit anyone.

"You're always tired," says Tim, voice rising. He gets up as well, his chair squawking across the floor. "You don't remember how we need you. You have no _idea_ how relevant you are. You used to be what kept this family together, and now look at us! Babs sniping at everything, Damian throwing temper tantrums every two minutes – "

"Shut up!" Dick shouts, screwing his eyes shut and covering his ears. The wasps are getting louder. "Shut up! _"_ He lurches away and stumbles out the door. A hand grabs his forearm and the touch is lightning, sparking out across his whole body, and he shrieks, "Don't touch me! Stop touching me! _Stop touching me!_ "

The hand releases him and the lightning recedes. He manages to weave his way back to his room. He locks the door. After a pause, for good measure, he drags the desk over and shoves it beneath the doorknob.

Sweat slides down his temple. Groaning, he lies on his bed, burying his face into the pillow. He wants a drink. He's not sure if he likes drinking but damn if he couldn't down a whole bottle of whiskey right now.

A minute or an hour later, there is a knock at his door and Bruce's voice buzzes through the wood. "Dick? Are you all right?"

Dick doesn't reply, pushing his face further into his pillow, wishing he couldn't hear him.

"When you come out, we – we'll be here, okay?"

It is not enough. Dick waits till Bruce's footsteps fade away, and then gets up and opens the window, breathing deeply. The air is cold and crisp, with a hint of smoke. Gotham City looms in the distance. The stars are blocked out by light pollution. With the view, the wasps quieten, just a little. Dick wants them silent. He wants sounds other than feet on old floorboards and the crackle of turning pages.

He grabs a pen and notepad, pauses, then throws them down again. He goes to his drawer and takes out his wallet. It's not like he's been out anywhere, so there is exactly as much money as there was before.

It's enough to hightail it out of here.

Alfred brings him his dinner. He opens his mouth as if to say something, and then leaves. When it is late enough that everyone should be asleep, Dick stuffs his wallet and phone into his jeans pockets.

He doesn't know what possesses him to stand at the window sill, bend, and spring towards a nearby tree. His body moves on autopilot, grabbing a sturdy branch, swinging, and dropping down with an easy roll. He has no idea how he did that, but he's not about to look a gift horse in the mouth; he doesn't have time, anyway.

There is a twinge in his ankle – he must have landed a little wonky – but it is nothing major. More concerning is the hot sting in his hands; they haven't healed from yesterday's mishap in the kitchen. Cursing, but determined, he surveys the area and heads towards the wall – taking the gate will get his ass hauled right back.

The wall is, lucky him, draped in thick vines. He takes a breath, pulls back his jacket sleeves, and begins to climb. His hands _burn_ , and he hisses, grimacing. His feet find shallow dips in the stone. Inch by inch, he lifts himself towards the edge of the wall. When he gets to the top, he clutches one of the iron spikes and glances back. No one is lurking amid the trees waiting to catch him off-guard.

He looks back to the other side, down at the road, and leaps.


	2. Chapter 2

When the sign in the front of the bus flashes with "The Bowery", Dick figures it's as good a place as any to get off.

The ride had been expensive. He's down to twenty dollars. He had eaten what Alfred got him, so he's not hungry. One good thing.

He wanders around, patting his pocket to check if his stuff is still there. Scattered litter crunches and crumples beneath his shoes – flyers and cigarette stubs and fruit peels. At this hour there is almost no one on the streets.

He catches sight of a yellow rag fluttering from the clothesline of a second-storey balcony. A memory flickers, but is gone before he can grasp at it. He must have walked these streets before.

Above a door to the left there's a lopsided signboard that says "ADULTS ONLY" in pink neon. Dick hangs around, considering going in. He shuffles his feet. It would be nice to pretend to be close to someone, even if for a few minutes. He wonders what he will say, what he will do. What will be done to him. He feels guilty looking at the sign, before he remembers he is well past eighteen. That takes away much of the intrigue; he carries on.

More than half the streetlights are defunct, so the shadows are oil-dark and the lit areas hurt his eyes. He pulls his hood further down. Someone whistles at him and hollers, "What are your rates, sweetheart?" Dick turns around to punch him but the man is already gone.

Clicking his teeth, he checks his phone. It's late, and colder than it was even ten minutes ago, but he has no intentions of going back. No one is yelling at him to put together puzzle pieces that were taken from him; sleeping on a pile of newspapers is easier to bear.

When he reaches an area that seems empty of people, he sits on a damp, rusted bench beneath a streetlight, rolling his shoulders and sighing. He wishes he had brought a backpack with a spare set of clothes, water, and some granola bars. Somehow, he doubts he'll be able to find a 24/7 convenience store in this area.

"Get tired more often, don't you?"

Dick leaps to his feet, turning around.

There's a man, around his mid-fifties, standing by the street light with his hands in his jacket pockets. Dick had not heard him approach.

"The hell are you?" says Dick.

The man holds up his hands. "Please, do not be concerned, Richard." His face is sallow, his hair thin. Despite the weather he is clad in a regular if expensive-looking suit. The shoes on his feet do not shine as much as the crystal around his neck.

 _Richard. Richard. Richard._ A figure at the window.

Dick's breath hitches.

"My name is William Cobb. I'm your grandfather."

"Fuck off," Dick says, mostly out of surprise. Bruce hadn't said anything about a grandfather. No one had said anything about a grandfather. His biological family is dead.

Cobb seems unfazed. He takes a step towards Dick, pulling a grey silk handkerchief from his jacket pocket. Dick flinches back as Cobb wipes something from his cheek. "Those sick people kept you locked up, didn't they? My poor boy." He clicks his tongue, eyes sharp, and Dick feels like a calf with a lame leg at a market. "Look at you. What have they done."

"How did you even know I was here?"

Cobb's face is pitying, as if Dick said something unbelievably stupid and didn't realise it. "I saw a young man who looked like my darling boy. I followed."

"Where's your car, then?"

"I was walking."

Yeah, right. "You look a little fancy for this place."

"You look a little lost to be wandering around on your own," Cobb says sharply. Then he softens. "Don't you find it strange that they said you have no living relatives? What are the odds, Richard?"

Microscopic. "I don't recall you ever visiting at the hospital."

"Of course you wouldn't," Cobb says patiently. "You can't even recall which turn you took to get here, can you?"

He's right. Dick sucks his teeth, trying to remain calm. How fast can he run? How fast can _Cobb_ run?

"I can heal you."

Dick's heart nearly stops. "What?"

"There are ways. I can restore your memory, even your athleticism. You moved like water, Richard, like _water_ . You were so beautiful." He tucks his handkerchief back in his pocket. The crystal around his neck glimmers. "I _understand_ , boy. You were hurt. It's not your fault that you're so exhausted."

Dick's head is starting to swim. He puts a hand on his forehead.

"I raised you, Richard," Cobb's voice filters through the waves. "After your parents died, I kept you, fed you, clothed you. I even taught you how to fight."

Pain, stabbing through his skull. He clutches it, moaning. Warmth. A hand on his shoulder. Knives. Black edged with gold. Visions, grainy, washed out, like shots from an old reel.

He's six and nursing a black eye while his mother lounges on a chair with a bottle.

He's eight and staring down at two broken bodies, the roar of the audience in his ears.

He's nine with Cobb's hands on his shoulders, aiming a knife at the centre of a faceless body.

"That's it. Come to me, Richard. I will give you everything you – "

The voice breaks off with sharp cry.

Dick is on his knees, gasping. He looks up, shaking the sweat out of his eyes. The street with its scattered lights blurs, focuses, and blurs again. A small figure is standing with bent knees before him. Red, yellow, green. Robin. Robin, from the news and the talk shows and satires on TV. He couldn't possibly meet the minimum height for a rollercoaster. How could he be outside at this hour? In this place? Doesn't he have school the next day? 

Cobb is yanking something out of his palm a few feet away, snarling in pain or anger or both.

"Targeting him when you know he is under our protection," Robin says. "That was asinine." 

Dick is still emerging from disorientation, but he knows that voice. He knows that accent: a bedrock of Pakistani ( _Lahore, he'd said Lahore_ ) with a slight Jersey twang.

He opens his mouth to say, _Damian?_ but Cobb cuts him off, reaching into his inner coat pocket and pulling out a dagger. He unsheathes it. That blade is _decidedly_ not for show. "Your protection? It does not matter what circus monkey tricks you were taught by the League of Shadows. You are sorely unequipped to fight me." He sounds amused. Dick takes that as a bad sign.

"Just so you know," says Damian – _Robin_ – "Pyg is still the creepiest freak I've ever met, but damn if you're not fighting for first place." He unsheathes a sword – a _sword_ , what the hell, where did he even get that. There aren't even any ceremonial swords in the manor, as far as Dick has seen. Though clearly, he has not seen much.

Damian gets in position. They size each other up.

 _Something_ kicks in. Dick gets shakily to his feet and yells, "Stop!" Or he tries to; his voice couldn't have reached beyond a couple of metres, weak as it is. He takes a step forward, intending to wedge himself between Damian and Cobb, and damn the consequences – and his leg spasms. He collapses to his knees, snarling in frustration.

Cobb lunges. It's not like the movies; the two are not a blur. There are no ostentatious flips. Just horrible pauses and brief, pitiless clashes of metal; Dick never thought a sound could be so sharp, or apt. He grits his teeth as he watches. In theory, a dagger should be useless against a sword. In theory.

Cobb is faster. Cobb is smoother. Dick wouldn't be surprised if he were wearing some kind of armour beneath his clothes. Sooner or later Damian will be hurt. Sooner or later he might be more than hurt. An opening. Damian needs an opening. There's got to be something – _something_ . _Come on_ , he thinks, _come on._

Damian ducks beneath a sweep of a blade and jams his sword into Cobb's shoulder. The dagger clatters to the ground and a drawn-out cry of rage tears through the air.

Victory, Dick thinks, light-headed with elation. That's a victory. Damian is safe. Dick can take him and –

Cobb delivers a devastating kick to Damian's solar plexus. The sword drops and Damian goes crashing to the sidewalk, his back hitting a wall.

"Damian!" Dick cries.

The sword is still lodged in Cobb's shoulder. Cobb bares his teeth, curls his hand around the hilt and _yanks_. Dick is so startled he remains where he is, on his knees. He is fairly certain a normal human couldn't yank a sword out of his shoulder without doing considerable, if not irreparable, damage. But then, Cobb has thus far seemed anything but normal.

Before Damian has time to get to his feet, Cobb strides over and grasps his throat, hauling him up and pressing him against the wall. Damian squirms and kicks, face going red from lack of air.

"Let him go!" Dick yells. He tries to get up, but his body feels like it is made of lead. He can barely crawl. "You're choking him! _Let him go!_ "

Cobb rams his fist exactly where he had kicked Damian before. Time stops flowing. For a moment, everything is silent. Damian goes limp and drops senseless to the ground.

"Damian!" Dick staggers to his feet, rage spreading like wildfire through him. He turns to Cobb. " _You_."

Cobb looks coolly at him, retrieving his dagger and sheathing it. His coat is shiny with blood, but the wound in his shoulder is no longer spurting it. "Don't even think about it, Richard. Your skill is gone. Your coordination is laughable." He adjusts his glove casually. "Come quietly, if you know what's good for you."

Dick sucks his teeth. He wishes he had a knife, a gun, anything to get this man away from Damian and himself. There has to be something he can do. There has to be.

A thought settles in.

It could work. Dick can do this. He wills his face to smoothen and says, "I'll come with you."

"I was beginning to think you had lost all sense. It is good to know you haven't." Cobb gestures with his head. "Walk ahead of me and follow my instructions. If you try to run, I will not give you the mercy of unconsciousness."

Dick swallows. Does not look at Damian. Tries to control his breathing: draw four, hold seven, release eight. He goes to Cobb –

– and hurls a punch at his throat.

It is intercepted. Cobb's grip around Dick's wrist is firm, sure. Practiced. "Did you think that would work?" he says.

A fist cracks across Dick's jaw. His side hits the ground and he lies there, stunned. Grime pricks his cheek. Another blow, a kick this time. His ribs, splintered. His femur. Fire in his blood. Metal in his throat. They keep coming, the explosions of pain, until he cannot pinpoint which parts of his body are broken and which aren't. He can't breathe, it hurts too much to breathe, but he does. In, out. Each breath brings a knife to his chest.

And then the battering stops.

Dick waits for the next blow. He prays it won't come.

Two shoes appear in Dick's vision. Cobb crouches down. Dick cannot see his face without lifting his head. It hurts too much to lift his head.

"You will learn to handle the pain without flinching," Cobb says. There is a hand in Dick's hair, carding through the strands. Dick feels nauseous. "Once your transformation begins, Gray Son, I will be able to carve out your heart without you making a sound." The hand slides lower, over his jaw, cupping it.

Dick hisses at the sharp pain. "You're a sick man," he manages to wheeze through his teeth.

Cobb ignores the jibe. "When you are Talon, you will do as I say, and the first thing I will say is, 'Kill that boy'." He squeezes, and Dick sees stars. Darkness creeps into the corners of his vision.

"He won't be Talon," rumbles a voice, deep and yet somehow unearthly quiet. It pulls at something in Dick's brain. Against his will his muscles relax. He cannot tell if he is dreaming; everything is too bright, all of a sudden. He has no memories, no identity, no gender.

There is the sound of something spinning through air, and the shoes disappear.

"You realise owls prey on bats," says Cobb.

Whoever the newcomer is, he does not bother replying. Instead he says, sounding as though he is standing at a far distance, "You hurt my children, and think you will walk away whole?"

The world is curtained off with black.

***

He wakes to the sound of beeping.

For a moment he thinks he's in some kind of time loop, like in sci-fi novels. But even before panic can set in, he realises he is in a different hospital. Those walls were white. These are pale green. There are children's crayon drawings on the walls, flowers and rainbows and bees.

Dick tries to open his mouth to make a sound, call for someone, a nurse, but a slice of pain in his jaw nearly knocks him back into unconsciousness. He breathes shallowly through his nose; there is a deep, searing ache in his chest and shoulder. 

The door opens and a small thin woman with silver hair comes in carrying a clipboard. She looks at Dick and smiles briefly, coming to his side. "Hello, Dick. My name is Dr. Thompkins. Please try not to move. You punctured your lung, but we treated it, and it should cause no future problems for you. You also dislocated your jaw. It's been bandaged, so you won't be able to talk easily."

She rattles off a laundry list of the damage: fractured ribs and femur, sprained wrist, mild concussion, laceration, and a backlog of minor injuries.

Dick makes a sound of acknowledgement, and then dissolves into a dry coughing fit. If he thought he was in pain before, it's nothing compared to now. He regrets waking up. A straw is immediately placed at his lips and he sucks in cool water.

"Easy," says Dr. Thompkins, removing the straw. "You've been unconscious for thirteen hours. Do you remember what happened?"

Dick pauses. Probes. But he is tired. Exhausted. His mind will not reach beyond a minute ago. He is about to try to indicate that, no, he does not remember – and then is pummeled with a recollection of events. Scaling a wall. A bus ride. Cobb. Damian – Robin. _His brother is Robin_.

Is Damian all right? Is he _alive_?

He makes a small, distressed sound, but nods so he doesn't give her the wrong idea.

Dr. Thompkins nods, sympathetic, but not saccharine. Dick appreciates her crisp professionalism. "Your father is in the waiting room. I'll call him."

His...father? His father is – no, Bruce. Bruce adopted him. He – 

_You hurt my children, and think you will walk away whole?_

Bruce is –

Bruce enters the room, face lined with worry and lips pursed. There's a purple bruise curving beneath his left eye.

A cocktail of emotions churns in Dick's gut: contrition with an undertow of prickling annoyance.

Bruce hurries over to Dick's side and takes his hand, the one without the IV needle in it. The sleeves of his rumpled sweater are pushed above his elbows. He breathes out Dick's name. As if he knows what Dick is wondering, he says, "Damian is all right. Nothing serious."

That's a relief, even if Dick would like more detail. He whispers, trying to move his mouth as little as possible, "Cobb?"

Bruce's lips thin. "Taken care of."

Jesus Christ, it's like pulling teeth. Had Bruce always been this laconic?

Dick lets him stand there for a while, lets him hold his hand, before he starts groping for Bruce's trouser pocket, at the outline of his phone. Bruce gives him a baffled look, which is pretty funny considering he also looks like he's got a pipe stuck in his side, before slowly reaching into his pocket and taking out his phone. "You...want my cell?"

Dick grunts.

Bruce punches in the passcode and hands it over gingerly. Dick fumbles with it, trying to find the Notes app; it is awkward using only one hand while lying down. It takes a frustrating two minutes to open the app and type what he wants to convey before he hands the phone back to Bruce. There is a typo, but it gets the message across, if Bruce's expression is anything to go by: _u are nat man_.

This is not the place or time to have this confrontation, but Dick's had his brains blown out and his insides rearranged by a creepy old man. He figures he's allowed a little impatience.

"Dick, I – " Bruce starts, and then clears his throat. "We'll talk about this at the manor."

Dick glares.

" _I'll_ talk about this at the manor. With your siblings and Alfred."

Somehow, it doesn't surprise him at all that Alfred is in on this crazy vigilante shit. He has exactly the kind of disposition suited to shady ops.

Dick makes a beckoning gesture to ask for Bruce's phone again. This time he types, _hoq did u fins me._

"There's a tracker in your phone."

Dick's eyes shoot wide open. _You can't fucking do that_ , he wants to yell. He hopes his glower does the talking.

"It wasn't always there. We – I put it in after you were released from the hospital. Damian was the first to realise you were gone, and went looking for you without informing the rest of us. We were already in different parts of the city, so it took us some time to reroute."

It's a good thing Bruce had taken the phone back, or Dick would have chucked it at his face.

Bruce scrubs a hand over his forehead. "We went about this in the wrong way." He seems, suddenly, older than he is, bent and tired. "Make no mistake, I am _not_ happy about you running off. That was incredibly irresponsible and we will have a thorough discussion about how you can cope with such...urges."

Dick taps a nail against the blanket. He'll apologise _later_ , when Bruce and the rest of them decide they haven't exactly made it easy for him and he's regained the use of his jaw.

Bruce continues, "I thought by keeping you in the manor we could avoid you being targeted by...people like that man who attacked you." His fists curl. Scabs decorate his knuckles. "It's my fault you were shot in the first place."

Dick doesn't know what to make of that; he'd been told he was caught in a gang fight in Blüdhaven while on his way back from work. Did he even really work at a gym, or was that made up too?

Before he can think too much about it, he falls asleep again.

He wakes to an unfamiliar blonde girl drawing a moustache on Cass' upper lip with a black permanent marker. Cass is slouched in a chair by the window, snoring with her mouth open. Bruce is nowhere to be seen.

Dick makes a confused sound and the girl turns to look at him. "Oh hey," she says. She gestures at Cass with the marker. "She won't wake up. Her ninja subconscious knows it's me."

"Nnh," is all Dick can manage with the bandages.

"Oh, right. I'm Stephanie. Steph to friends, which you are, kind of. Were. Whatever you're comfortable with, dude."

Dick looks at Cass. The idea that she had fallen asleep while waiting for him to wake up sends warmth spreading through him. For the first time, he feels like he belongs somewhere. Like he doesn't have to break himself into a shape that other people want.

The door opens and Tim barges in. He's got dark rings under his eyes and his face is pale and spotty, like he'd been eating and sleeping badly for the past couple of days. "Steph? Do you – " He all but screeches to a halt when he sees Dick. "Oh God, Dick, are you okay?"

Dick gives a thumbs-up sign.

"Riiight," says Steph, yanking at Cass' arm to wake her up.

Cass snorts and blinks. She wipes some drool at her mouth with the back of her hand, turns to Dick, and breaks into a grin. The ink moustache curls up. "I would have saved you myself," she says, "but Bruce was closer. I'm better. Next time I'll show you."

"Ghhhck," says Dick in lieu of _Sounds good_. It's not like he had been conscious to see Bruce fight anyway.

"Dick's about to have a nice little chat with Tim," says Steph. She gives Tim a smile that has lots of teeth, and then tugs Cass out of the room and shuts the door.

Dick and Tim are left staring at each other.

Tim averts his gaze. "I'm glad Steph was here," he murmurs. "She knows how to sort you out."

Dick makes a series of vague hand gestures and pained facial expressions, trying to convey how sorry he is that he got Damian hurt. And he _is_ sorry; the guilt is so heavy he's surprised he isn't bent with it.

Tim seems to understand, because he flaps a hand frantically, making a strangled, contrary noise. "No, Dick, I – oh man, just..." He drags the chair Cass had been sleeping in to Dick's bedside and sits down heavily. For a few moments he draws deep breaths, as though bracing himself. "I shouldn't have yelled at you," he says at length, quietly, eyes lowered. He scratches an eyebrow, picks at the edge of his red sweater. "I've always been so used to you being the guy who kept us all together. If we had a problem, we went to you, and if not, you came to us."

Dick reaches out with his hand till Tim clasps it. It is warm and sweaty. He wishes this could be a conversation instead of a monologue.

"But that's not fair," Tim continues. "It's not right to treat you as some guy we get to push all our problems onto and not do the same in return. Especially not at a time like this for you. I just – " He chews his lip. "I miss you, and that gets to me sometimes. I'm sorry. You taught me better. My dad taught me better." He gives a shamefaced laugh. "I feel like I've failed two legacies at once."

Dick does not need to look in his heart for forgiveness – it is already pressing against his teeth.

He squeezes Tim's hand.

"Can we," Tim says, "get ice cream or something? After you're healed up? There's. A place next to Robinson Park and we used to go there sometimes. You'd always get that chocolate chip flavour and you liked sitting on high places like walls while eating it. I'm not...you don't have to if you don't want to."

Dick rubs his thumb over Tim's knuckles and nods. He likes that idea.

***

The amount of information Dick is supplied about his double life – and inevitably his family's double life – is so large that they have to do it in increments, over three weeks, so they don't break his brain.

If he hadn't been shown the massive underground cave with the T-Rex and multiple suits of armour and slick black car, he would have forced them all to visit a psychiatrist. "You christened it the Batmobile," Tim had said, in a gleeful, sadistic sort of way. Dick was torn between horror and amusement. "When you were nine," added Tim, which made it marginally more acceptable, and a lot funnier, since Bruce never changed the name.

He is still digesting it. Part of him insists it's all a massive joke: Taking an oath as Robin. Leading a group of metahuman vigilantes. Consulting _Superman_ to become Nightwing.

The Court of Owls. Cobb. Who, turns out, is his _great_ -grandfather. Dick felt vaguely violated when he heard that. He's glad the man had beaten a retreat to the Court to lick his wounds; he wouldn't trust any prison to hold him securely.

And then there is Blüdhaven. Since Nightwing disappeared, it's been overrun with the kind of crime he used to suppress. Muggings aside, rapes and child trafficking have been on the rise. Red Robin and Black Bat check in occasionally, but at the end of the day, they are Gotham vigilantes.

It is a problem he would like to deal with, at some point.

"It's amazing," says Dick, looking at his hands, "how I had such a fantastical life and I remember none of it."

Damian eyes him from his perch on the couch. His arms are around his knees. He had been Dick's Robin. When Dick was _Batman_. Dick pinches himself, again, not even trying to be surreptitious.

"I wonder if I'll ever return to the Nightwing gig," he murmurs, even though he knows the answer.

Damian's face is inscrutable. "Unlikely. After five months you can get an MRI to check for structural damage to your brain. If there is evidence of abnormality, or the neurologic exam remains abnormal, it will be a no."

Never let it be said that dishonesty is one of Damian's faults, Dick thinks dryly. "And I have trouble with memory, so I can't be someone like Oracle, either." He looks to the ceiling. "I'll have to rebuild my life from the ground up."

Damian tilts his head, seeming hesitant. "Are you sad?"

That's such a childish and simplistic word, sad. And yet it is the only apt word right now.

"I'm a little pissed that I used to be that awesome and now I can't be, but no, I'm not _sad_. Not about that. I can't be. I don't remember squat." He shrugs, hoping to appear casual.

"What are you sad about, then?"

Dick picks at his lower lip, peels away a bit of dead skin. He's got people who bandage his hands when they're bleeding and pretend he hasn't put salt in their coffee and save him from owl-assassin lunatics, and none of them want him. They want the guy who wore black spandex and founded the Teen Titans and led the Justice League on Batman's whim. He doesn't want to say all this. He doesn't want to burden Damian, or anyone, with how fucked up he is.

"I know what you're thinking," says Damian.

"Oh?"

"Yes. You are trying to spare everyone from your pain. It's an idiotic habit you've had since God knows when. You are the kind of person who needs to talk about his feelings. So. Talk."

Dick's eyebrows tick. "You're a perceptive little munchkin, aren't you?"

"Call me that again and I will break your spine in three places."

"Why not four?"

"Three is a rounder number. It pleases me. Now stop trying to derail the conversation."

Dick laughs. He cannot help but feel less uneasy, with Damian's prickly humour – even if he is reluctant for a barely pubescent boy to shoulder his problems. "Okay. I feel like an exact copy of a person this family used to love. I'm me, I'm _here_ , but sometimes I feel immaterial with everyone's expectations of me." He scratches his hair. "And that's it. I don't really know how much clearer I can make it."

Damian chews his lip, resting his chin on his knees. Then, to Dick's surprise, he hops off the couch, clambers onto Dick's lap, and curls up like a dormouse.

He puts his hand on the back of Damian's head, fingers pressing down on soft spikes of hair.

"We need you," Damian says quietly against his neck. His shoulders are tense. "I need you."

"I – " Dick chokes on the words. "I need you too. I need my family even if I can't remember what we were like before."

Outside the open window, the evening is fading into night.

Damian pulls back. Even though his eyes are red and puffy he looks at Dick contemplatively, with seriousness. Dick's heart breaks for him.

Without a word, Damian climbs off and goes away.

Dick stays on the couch for a long time. When the sky begins to darken, he heads back to his room. His already battered copy of _Coping With Traumatic Brain Injury_ is on his bedside table. He doesn't even want to look at it. Not now.

Luckily, his bookshelf is anything but under-stocked. There is Joyce, which seems like something he'd enjoy, but then he spots _Robin Hood_ and can't help himself. He settles onto his bed, getting comfortable. He reads the first page. He takes a sip of water. He stretches his neck.

He can't concentrate.

Dick puts the book down on the sheets and rubs his temples.

There is a sharp knock. Before he can answer, the door swings open. Damian looks like he could burn a hole through the wall with his gaze.

"You know it's pointless to knock if you're going to enter anyway?"

"Cease your chattering."

Dick waits.

Damian takes a few deep breaths, and then glances up as though he's taking permission for something from God. He looks back at Dick. "Let's start over." He raises his chin and sticks out his hand, and Dick is struck with an unexpected pride at how brave the kid is being. "I am Damian al Ghul Wayne."

Dick takes the small, callused hand. It is cold, and he wants to keep it warm. He smiles. "Nice to meet you, Damian," he says. "I'm Dick Grayson."

-end-


End file.
